All the flies in the valley were buzzing at the windows, wingflits
fizzing the afternoon bright as sparkling water. As they
were our only neighbors, we climbed the loft's ladder clothed
and descended it naked, proud not to have clocked our heads
against the roof's crossbeam, woozy nonetheless
with that suspended, elevated hour. An hour when we
almost, just nearly slipped our skins, lost track
of our insistent edges. That good kind of losing.

If our cabin were the barn next door, this loft would be
where the hay was stored—bale after bale of sun-drenched stalks,
the herds feasting all winter on summer.

I've returned now alone, to read, but mostly
to listen, hovering in the god-seat:
There's the loose flutter of a mare's sigh, half-asleep
in the yard. Above, the teeth-on-tin screech of a hawk; below
the tink of her spoon on a dish as she scoops up peas cooked
slow with butter and salt, as she was taught as a child, a helping
of home in these faraway mountains.

Up here, unseen, the heat
drifts up from the stove's glow, the peas' haze, my love's
contented breath, the memory of her face beneath mine—
simmering

until I am blanched as a boiled tomato and a single touch
is all it would take to part my skin in a neat seam, a touch
to peel back this pored, porous facade so I can drift down and
settle inside her like steam. Like whatever comfort and ripeness
her body might need.